she was a chameleon. she stayed the same inside, her core was a golden, strong orb, hard and pure and bright, but she found it was nice to take things she admired from the people around her. she had the wings of a leader, not afraid to fly and brave the heat of the burning sun for the chance to see the world at its most beautiful. she had the eyes of her best friend, able to look at the world in wisdom and in its best light, a gift she earned from years and years of silently observing and admiring. her sister had such giving hands, she even managed to give the Patchwork Girl her generosity itself. she had the smile of a carefree woman, the dance of a small child, the fight of an old father. her mother gave her the mouth of patience, her brother the heart of sensitivity, her enemy gave her the choke of fear. the singers gave her passion, the storytellers gave her tears of happiness. he gave her the words to be strong. i wonder if she's more made up of the core that is purely her, or the people around her. i wonder if it really matters.